Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Grinning, he wandered over to the stove and poured himself a cup of tea. Miri's reading habits were amazing: science, gardening, murder mysteries, poetry - he had forgotten half the subjects covered by the last batch of books she had foraged. She had read each with serious concentration; gods alone knew how she managed to keep track of it all. His own tendency was to pick one or two subjects at a time and read through the levels available until he felt himself to have a clear fundamental understanding of the principles involved. Fiction had been a pleasure of his youth, sharply curtailed by school and then by duty.

  He turned as she came back into the room, arms full of books, including the six he had borrowed. "You forgot!"

  He sighed. "Forgive me, cha'trez. But you forget how very old I am - memory is the first to go, I am told."

  She laughed, dumping the collection on the table, then turned and looked at him seriously. "You need gloves, boss. Tell Zhena Trelu so, okay? She wants you to fetch and carry, your hands oughta be warm."

  "And you?" he asked. "I do not recall that you have gloves."

  "I'll keep," she began. But Zhena Trelu was already calling down the hall for Cory to come along.

  Sighing, he poured out the last of his tea and set the cup in the sink. He pulled his jacket from its peg and shrugged it on as he came back to Miri's side. Seriously he measured her fingers against his own before dropping a kiss on her palm.

  "I will see what may be done," he said. "Keep well, cha'trez - and mind you protect Borril from strangers."

  She laughed and hugged him as the truck's asthmatic horn wheezed peevishly at the back stairs. Val Con gathered up the books and dashed out the back door, letting it slam behind him.

  Miri drifted to the window and watched the truck make its careful way down the drive and turn cautiously into the road. Borril groaned from his rug by the stove - the only sound in the house.

  "Work to do, Robertson," she said against the silence. Then she smiled. Zhena Trelu was gone; there was no reason that the radio in the parlor should not be turned up as loud as possible.

  Encouraged by that thought, she made her soundless way down the hall. Kneeling on the ottoman, she turned the control until it clicked and waited for the machine to warm up.

  The announcer's voice gabbled into existence, and Miri strained her ears for the sense of it. Something about - Bassilans? and armies? The professional whine of the newsman's voice, along with the crackle of static, defeated her. She twisted the numbered dial: Voices talking. Voices singing. Voices, voices - music. She stopped turning the dial and listened. Music, indeed, and of a variety that could claim kinship with the type of music Hakan made. Good enough, she decided, and upped the volume.

  Then she was on her way back to the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves in anticipation of washing the dishes.

  Zhena Trelu drove with precision unmarred by confidence. The last snow had been some days earlier, and the road was clear. There were, however, occasional patches of ice on the surface, and Zhena Trelu navigated the truck over each as if one wrong breath would buy them disaster.

  Val Con considered the side of her face, decided that talking would only make her more nervous, and directed his attention to the day.

  It was fine, though very cold, and he was briefly, intensely, grateful for the warmth of the clothing he wore. Liad was a warm place, after all, though he had been on worlds far chillier than Gylles in midwinter, and he found he preferred being warm to being cold.

  The truck slowed; apparently Zhena Trelu was even more distrustful of the covered bridge than of the occasionally icy road. He hardly blamed her. The wooden structure rattled and groaned unnervingly, no matter what the season, seeming to threaten imminent collapse. But, once again, the truck made safe passage and, beyond the bridge, leapt ahead at nearly twenty-five miles an hour.

  Val Con shifted on the seat squinting as a sunbeam, deflected by an icicle, stabbed into his eyes. On a rise to the right, a cluster of cows grazed the scant, winter grass; though they looked even less like the animals he had learned, as a child, to call "cows" than Borril looked like a dog.

  Come home.

  Startled, he considered the thought. Go home? But surely -

  Home. The thought was insistent, strongly flavored with hunch. Danger at home.

  The breath caught in his throat then, and he sent his awareness to touch the spot that still sang, untroubled: Alive-and-well...

  And yet his hunch; always played, never in error: Danger. Danger at home.

  Zhena Trelu turned the truck onto Main Street, and Val Con forced himself to breathe deeply, to consider both messages dispassionately. It was true that one could be in danger and yet be alive - be well.

  The truck pulled to the curb, and Zhena Trelu turned off the switch and removed the keys.

  "Zhena Trelu," he said quickly, almost breathlessly. "We must go home. Now."

  She stared at him. "We just got here. There's a lot to do before we go home." Her face softened somewhat. "Meri's all right, Cory. Like as not, she's pleased to have the house to herself for the day."

  "Meri is all right," he agreed, keeping his voice even and firm. "But there is danger at home, and she must not face it alone."

  The old lady's face grew stern. "Poppycock," she decided, opening her door.

  "Zhena Trelu," he began again, strongly tempted merely to take the keys from her.

  "No!" she snapped, getting out of the truck and glaring at him from street level. "Now stop wasting my time, Cory. The faster we get everything done, the faster we'll be able to go home." She slammed the door.

  Wincing at the sound, Val Con worked the handle on his side, slid to the ground, and closed the door gently. Turning left, he began to run.

  "Cory!" Zhena Trelu yelled at his fleeing heck. "Corvill Robersun, come back here this instant!" But he gave no sign that he heard.

  Zhena Trelu stood for a moment, bosom heaving, anger warring with worry. It was not really like him, she acknowledged, to just run off like that. Anger flared.

  "What do you know what's like him or not?" she grumbled to herself. "Let him run all the way home. Teach him a lesson."

  So saying, she turned her back on the truck and the man who was running away and marched across the street to Brillit's.

  Tomat Meltz looked up when the entrance bell rang and frowned at the short, long-haired foreigner his son had taken up with.

  "Hakan!" the little man called, with no regard at all for the proper way to behave in a place of business. "Hakan, are you here?"

  "See here, young man," Zamir Meltz began in his best speech-before-Assembly voice.

  "Cory?" Hakan appeared out of the back room like a conjuring trick, mustached face glowing. He held his hands out. "Cory, I was just trying to call - we got the job!"

  "What?" The little man brushed this aside with a frown. "Just trying to call - who answered?"

  "Huh?" Hakan blinked, joy diminishing visibly. "Nobody answered, Cory. You're here, aren't you?"

  "Miri." It was nearly a whisper. "Miri is home alone." He looked up sharply and found his friend frowning at him in puzzlement.

  "Hakan, please..." He extended a hand and grabbed the other's sleeve. "There - I feel that there is danger at home. Miri is alone. Hakan - drive me home."

  The pause was less than a heartbeat. "Right. Let's go." Hakan dived back into the storeroom and reemerged seconds later, car keys in one hand, jacket in the other. The little man was already pulling the outside door open.

  "Hakan!" Tomat Meltz snapped. "Just where do you think you're going? You're paid to help in this store, and the business day has just begun. If you think you can go running off on some - on some skevitt chase - "

  "See you later, Dad," Hakan called as he charged through the door on his friend's heels. "I'm going to drive Cory home."

  Tomat Meltz stood staring at the place where his son had been, then shook himself and walked carefully over to the door. He opened it to the roar of acceleration: Hakan was driving Co
ry home.

  Zamir Meltz closed the door, walked back to the counter, and resumed his accounting. He was smiling, just a little.

  SHALTREN

  Cessilee

  The Stelubia Delegation were not sufficiently impressed. Worse, they had apparently begun preliminary negotiations with that upstart of an O'Hand, who thought himself so safe in his rat's nest on Daphyd. Well, let him continue to think so yet a while; a lesson would shortly be forthcoming. But first Stelubia had to be secured.

  Grom Trogar smiled and settled his dark glasses more firmly on his nose, aware of the comforting pressure of the weapon against his ribs, beneath his jacket.

  "It is true," he acknowledged thoughtfully, "that the Juntavas has many detractors, all busily crying out that our power is failing, that even now we are ripe for the plucking. You will have noticed, I am certain, that the few attempts to pluck us have been checked, the ringleaders...punished." He smiled again, though none of the other six around the table joined him.

  "It will perhaps be instructive for you to consider the individuals now held by the Juntavas, awaiting our disposal. I offer this instruction because it would sadden me, gentles, most deeply, if you were tricked into making a decision of alliance that might prove - painful - to all parties concerned."

  He touched the appropriate disk on the panel before him, and the large screen to his left lit, showing the interior of the specially reinforced metal room with its metal table and chairs, in which was -

  Nothing else at all.

  Grow Trogar gaped. The proportions of the hole in the farther wall were quite modest, considering the size of the largest of the two escapees - a sharp-edged rectangle showing a glimpse of the hallway beyond. The steel sheet that had once been part of the wall had been pulled to one side and laid upon the floor, as if those who had cut it away had expended some care to insure that none would trip over it and injure themselves.

  He was on his feet, moving through the door of his office and sweeping past the receptionist's desk. Tricked! They had tricked him! Well, it would be their last trick. A sad pity, indeed, that a being might reach the exalted age of eight or nine hundred Standards and yet be unable to recognize a man who will not be bested.

  He did not have to go far to find them. At the main hall, he stopped, staring while the two of them sauntered forward, apparently intending to leave by the front entrance, as if they were not already dead.

  Grom Trogar strode up to them, planted his legs wide, and glared, secure in the knowledge of the weapon that rode against his heart.

  "Stupid reptiles!" he cried, oblivious to the six who had followed him out of his office; oblivious, as well, to the others summoned by the alarm system: security guards, unit managers, emergency personnel. "So you value your lives as little as that! You come onto my planet, into my city, dare to bargain with me for the lives of a Terran bitch and a Liaden Scout! You repudiate my judgment, question my power! You have greatly overstepped, Aged Ones. And now we shall see the price to be paid."

  "Grom Trogar," the one called Edger rumbled, "you are obviously in a haste so great that it is harmful. You do not understand the meaning of the words you speak. We will allow you time to compose yourself and call together a Council of Elders, then we shall return to talk further. In reason and calmness - "

  "Silence!" the man roared, riding his rage like a fire-crested wave. Was he a child to be so instructed? No! He was Grom Trogar, the ultimate voice of the mightiest network of power and wealth in all the galaxy!

  "This ceases to be amusing, Aged One. Know that there is no Council of Elders to heed your ridiculous bargains, nor shall I create such a thing to placate you. Know also that the entire Juntavas shall be charged with hunting down Miri Robertson and your filthy, murdering Scout of a brother. And when they are found, I promise you that it will take them quite a long time to die. It will be amusing, I think, to have a Scout beg me for death. Almost as amusing as it will be to kill you, Aged One. This feud is between you and me - and you cannot win it."

  Sheather shifted, perceived his brother's sign, and regained stillness, though there was something pricking him to attention that made his hand long for his blade...

  "Grom Trogar," Edger repeated, "you are in harmful haste. Perhaps you are even ill. You cannot mean that you desire a personal feud between you and me. Consider yourself; consider what the blades of Middle River have already wrought within this place. A duel between us two is sheerest folly. Reconsider your words. We will return in some days and have calmer speech." He inclined his head and turned aside, meaning to detour around the man.

  The weapon flared as Grom Trogar brought it from beneath his jacket; it hummed as he thumbed it to life and brought it up, aiming for the vulnerable spot, where neck met shoulder armor.

  It is true that the members of the Clutch are often slow. But not always slow. Grom Trogar screamed once before his body understood that it was dead and slumped to the floor beside the evil, humming thing, his blood already pooling about it.

  Edger turned to look long at his brother Sheather, then turned again to study the pitiful, soft man impaled upon the glowing crystal blade and the gun humming to itself in the growing pool of red.

  Not a sound came from the humans all around.

  "What say you, brother?" Edger asked gently.

  Sheather bowed his head. "In defense of the T'carais I did strike. The weapon - the weapon, brother! It was no clean thing he sought, decided between two, with honor, with justice. Only to slay..." His sister's voice whispered in his heart; he stopped himself and raised his head to look into the eyes of his T'carais and his eldest brother. "If I have been in error, I do accept the penalty. Strike surely, brother!"

  As T'carais, Edger made the sign of negation; as eldest brother, he added the sign of honored esteem. "Retrieve your blade. The blow was rightly dealt, in defense of T'carais and Clan." He raised his luminous eyes to the still-silent, watching humans.

  "As for the weapon..." Edger sang a song consisting of seven notes, three of which human ears were not capable of hearing.

  Grom Trogar's blood steamed where it pooled about the weapon as the power pack ruptured, leaked energy. There was a flash! of pinpoint light, a snap! of sound - and the weapon was molten metal, mixing with liquid red.

  Finally, from the humans all about came a stir, a sound - a drawing close together and a drawing a little apart. One stepped forward to bow.

  "I am called Sambra Reallen, Chairman Pro Tem," she said softly. "How may I serve you, Aged Ones?"

  VANDAR

  Springbreeze Farm

  Hakan drove with the same casual intensity that characterized his guitar-playing. His eyes and hands worked together, and Val Con found that portion of himself which measured such things gauging the other man's reaction times.

  They were approaching a patch of ice that had caused Zhena Trelu considerable anxiety on the way in, but Hakan did not even seem to notice that it was there. They were over and past it, with only the barest hint of instantly corrected skid.

  Pilot material, this one, Val Con thought.

  "Hakan," he said quietly. "I have said there is danger at home. Maybe it is not only danger for Miri; I do not know. It could be danger for you, too. I think that we should stop before..."

  Hakan slowed the car, changed gears before they were fully out of the dipping curve, and accelerated again, shaking his head. "Not to worry. I said I'd take you home, didn't I? I'll help you, too. You say there's trouble, and I believe it - you've got such feeling about things." He glanced over, smiling. "I never had a chance to play with anybody who catches things so quickly - not just the notes, but the full spirit of the music. I think you live life that way, too. So I think you know that something's wrong."

  Val Con frowned. "I have just said that I don't know," he reminded softly, but Hakan cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  "Look, if Miri's hurt herself somehow, I had the medic course when I was in the militia. And I was in the volunteer fire dep
artment until the politics bored me out of it. I can help, whatever trouble."

  "And will you take orders from me?" Val Con asked. "Will you do as I say, without talking, if there is a big danger?"

  "You're the boss," Hakan said. Val Con clamped his mouth on a gasp. The other glanced at him. "You'd help me, wouldn't you? If it was Kem?"

  "Yes..."

  "Well, there you are," Hakan said.

  Val Con rolled down the window in the door, letting the sharp air wash against his face, then reached out and touched that special place in his mind: Alive-and-well.

  The covered bridge loomed - then quickly they were through it, boards rattling and car shaking, at a pace Zhena Trelu would have considered sheerest folly.

  "You have been in the militia," Val Con murmured. "Have you been to war?"

  "No. Hasn't been a war in these parts for a long, long time. I helped out after the explosion at the fireworks factory in Carnady, though. Folks said that was a lot like a war."

  Val Con shifted, growing uneasier as the farm came closer. His mind was demanding reactions from him - weapons, fight, even kill - and he took a deep breath, consciously imposing calm while he took inventory. Edger's blade rode secure in his sleeve. He bent and slipped the throwing blade from the top of his work boot.

  If Hakan noticed the knife, he said nothing.

  "Do you have any weapons at all, Hakan?"

  "You're really serious, huh? Yeah. I got a half-and-half there in the back, somewhere under everything."

  Val Con turned in his seat, groping among guitar cases and sheet music.

  A half-and-half, it turned out, was a large-bore weapon with a small-bore weapon overtop.

  "It isn't much." Hakan's voice was unusually serious. "I've got a few shot shells, and there should be plenty of - "

  "Explosives?" Val Con demanded, eyeing the shell meant for the larger bore.